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BOMB Magazine | Opening Her Text

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I nestle with my daughter in her bed in the room painted pink nearly a dozen years ago; half the pink now covered with magazine clippings of this or that star, male and female. Her reading light spots a book in my hands. She is the oldest of two daughters and on the verge of revision. Outside boys kill one another over sharp lyrics. Girls slash strangers across the face. In Prospect Park the fireflies begin their mating flares while other insects settle into moist foliage. I love her so much—we loved her so much we weren’t sure we could love another child—yet we instantly adored the second daughter in that stunning postpartum fatigue. Each was so large in the body I could barely recognize as my own; then each so small in our hands. Now this: the oldest leans against me to hear the first chapter of my favorite novel, written by a woman a thousand years ago. * My daughters are so awkwardly lovely that I am afraid to stare unless they are in sleep. When I do, I wonder, will they turn into

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